


Hell

by anti_ela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Child Abuse, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school is hell. Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of it.<br/>- - - - -<br/>Dean pushes the peas across his plate. They're gray-green. They were always gray-green no matter what the bag showed. Maybe he cooks them wrong. He looks over at Sam, whose plate is almost empty; then at Dad, who hadn't stirred from the recliner. The TV was on, but no one was watching. Dad was asleep, and Sam was eating, and Dean was too busy watching Sam and watching Dad and fucking up everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell

**Author's Note:**

> CW for child abuse, alcoholism, depression, self-loathing, suicidal ideation, violence
> 
> Later chapters may have a love interest or two, but I just wanted to write Dean Winchester in high school dealing with his shitty life. I'll update warnings, etc., as the story progresses.

Dean pushes the peas across his plate. They're gray-green. They were always gray-green no matter what the bag showed. Maybe he cooks them wrong. He looks over at Sam, whose plate is almost empty; then at Dad, who hadn't stirred from the recliner. The TV was on, but no one was watching. Dad was asleep, and Sam was eating, and Dean was too busy watching Sam and watching Dad and fucking up everything.

He puts the spoon down, clears his throat. "Hey, Sammy, you still hungry?"

Sam nods and pulls the plate across the card table. "Thanks," he mumbles, still shy of his changing voice.

"No problem." Sammy still eats like he was shoveling gravel into a pit, but Dean didn't feel like making fun of him tonight. He stands too fast and the chair crashes down. Both boys turn to the living room, but only the weather woman moved. Dean bends, picks it up, and knows what's knotting up in Sam, so Dean just watches his hands. Grab, angle, adjust, set down quietly, pile napkin on plate, pick it up, walk away do not engage walk away—

"He shouldn't hit you," Sam hisses.

"He doesn't when he's sober." Automatic, like this fight.

"Then he shouldn't drink!"

Dean's hands are trembling and the spoon falls with a clang in the metal sink.

He turns the water as hot as it will go and lets it run.

"Go do your homework, Sammy."

Dean can feel the sounds of Sam getting up like lashes on his back. The weight of Sam coming forward, stopping, sighing, turning to go to their room sits on Dean's neck. His hands are tingling and going numb and he can only breathe again when he hears the door close. So it won't be tonight, he thinks.

By the time Dean's washed, dried, and put away each dish, the news has ended and some crime show's come on. Dean snorts at the TV cop as he passes, but a hand on the hem of his shirt stops him.

"Hey, kiddo," John says, squinting up at him.

"Hey, Dad."

"You get taller lately?"

"Yes, sir."

John huffs. "Guess that's what teenagers do."

Dean looks down and away, and his eye catches on his father's badge.

John drops his hand. "There any food left?"

"Uh, yeah, but I put it in the fridge," he says, straightening his shirt. "Do you want me to heat it up for you?"

John closes his eyes. "No. You go on."

"Yes, sir."

He flees.

Before he gets to the door, he slows his steps, regulates his breathing. Tries to make his face show nothing. Opens it.

But it's not the brother Dean was fearing who looks up from his physics homework. It's the sweet brother, the bashful one.

"Sorry about earlier," he says, squeaks and all. "Should've helped you clean up."

Dean ruffles Sam's hair and pulls out his pre-cal. Dean's not stupid, but this triangles crap is just not clicking. Sam took it last year, though, and already knows what Dean's low groan means. They spend an hour on a problem set Dean knows Sam could've done in ten minutes. Once they're done, though, he really does feel like a little light's been shed.

"Thanks, Sammy."

Sam smiles, but his eyes have that worried cant to them, and the smile sticks around too long to be real. He buries himself in physics again, so Dean takes out English's assigned reading. It doesn't take long for him to stop caring about it, and his English teacher doesn't normally bother with anything besides fill-in-the-blank quizzes. His History can be pushed off 'til tomorrow, and they're in the most boring part of the entire Bio book, and fuck it.

"Can I turn off the overhead, and you just use the lamp?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. 'Night, Dean."

"'Night."

Dean peels off his clothes until he's down to undershirt and boxers and sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. He should go and brush his teeth, he should stay up to finish his homework (History, especially, where he's slipping from a comfortable C to something that gets you noticed), he should do so much more. He grabs the quilt and wraps it around himself, lies down. He pulls his knees up and turns to the wall.

He's practiced at the art of crying soundlessly, and Sam is practiced at the art of knowing everything.

Several hours later, after Sam's turned off the light, Sam creeps over to his bed. "I don't mean to make things hard for you, Dean," he whispers. "I just... Dean?"

But Dean says nothing.

Today was November 2nd, and he didn't even realize until five.

When his alarm goes off at 6:15, he's not sure he actually slept.

Sam's already up and in the shower. It's John's day off, so he won't wake up until they're back from school. Dean knocks on the bathroom door and calls, "Curtain closed?" He's answered with something that sounds affirmative, so he goes in and brushes his teeth. He hunches over the sink and lets the cold water run into his cupped hands, then brings it up and washes his face, his neck.

"You gonna be a while? You've gotta be there early."

"Yeah, I'm almost done."

"Safe to guess you won't let me piss?"

"God! Get out!"

Within twenty minutes, both brothers are clean, dry enough, and clothed. Dean throws a sweater at Sam who rolls his eyes but puts it on. Sam grabs a package of pop tarts, and Dean makes a last visual sweep of the room. "Got everything?" Sam nods.

Dean opens the door to the grey pre-dawn of winter. The air is still and imbued with the heavy cold that burrows into you. Last week's snow crackles under his boots, and he pulls the leather jacket closer. It's never practical, but that's not the point.

He scrapes just enough of the frost off the windshield, then gets in. The back of Sam's head is still damp, and Sam's shivering.

"You'll get pneumonia," Dean says, turning the key. "You should let me cut it."

Sam shakes his head. "It's cool."

Which means: "Dad hates it."

Dean lets it drop.

When the road turns from dirt to gravel, they see one other car; when it turns from gravel to asphalt, they join the daily caravan to town. Dean loves to drive when the road is open, but he hates the slow crawl of traffic, the bottlenecks, the stops. On good days, it takes twenty minutes to get to town; today, it takes forty. Five of which were spent on a bridge. Waiting.

By the time they get to school, Sam has three minutes to spare. He dashes out of the car before Dean's reached a full stop. The good parking lot is full already, so Dean has to go to the one with pits and cracks throughout. He puts her in park, kills the engine, and rests his head against the steering wheel.

It's too late to get breakfast. It's too early to go to class. It's too cold to wait outside. He should just stay here...

He wakes when the bell rings.

Panic.

Hands-shaking, stomach-heaving, vision-tunneling panic.

He runs.

His hands are numb, he drops his books, each door is the same each hall is the same each locker each window each wall is the same—

His feet take him where he needs to go, but he stops, leans against the door, slides down.

He breathes, waits, breathes.

It recedes.

He reaches his hand up (white, sweating, cold) and pushes his hair back.

He knows that, at best, he looks high. Maybe sick, maybe tired. But with his reputation, their minds will go to high.

His sigh stutters on its way out, but he pushes himself up, gathers his things, and opens the door.

Dean is almost to his desk when the teacher says, "Winchester..." The older man sounds as tired as Dean feels. It was a teacher he had had before; one of those horrible ones that still try to engage lost students. The kind that you can let down. "Just—take this. Go to the office." The paper feels heavy in Dean's hand. "And come see me after class, son," the teacher adds quietly.

He doesn't look at Mr. Singer's face. He knows what that face looks like: open; searching; concerned. He can't handle anyone else's love or expectations. He can't be what they want, their imaginary Dean who's not a piece of shit.

He's halfway to the office before he realizes he's shaking.

_"The attendance policy at Lower Lawrence Senior High is very strict, Mr. Winchester, for a reason."_

He forces his breathing to be even.

_"We do not babysit miscreants. We do not harbor fugitives. We teach students—but only those who want to learn."_

A few steps from the door, his panic dies. What's the point?

_"It is abundantly clear that you do not want to learn."_

He reaches for the handle.

_"One more tardy, Mr. Winchester—"_

When he pushes into the realm of secretaries, he's all smiles. "Hey, Mrs. C. Is the most holy in?"

_"—if I even suspect you've broken a rule—"_

When she looks up, her face falls. "Oh, no, sweetie. Again?"

_"—you're gone. For good. And I will make it my job, no, my joy—"_

His smile flickers, but he winks at her. "I had to come see you, didn't I?"

_"—to make your life a living hell."_

For a second, she just looks at him. He turns his head as she dials the vice principal's extension. "Mr. Alastair?"

John's still not awake when Dean walks in the door an hour later.

Expelled his senior year.

He takes off his shoes, sets his alarm for 2:30, and lies down.

When it goes off, he might have even slept.


End file.
